Hope (Prompt Exchange Challenge)
by ImpalaLove
Summary: What keeps a Winchester alive? No spoilers, no specific season. Written for April's Prompt Exchange Challenge.


**Written for April's Prompt Exchange Challenge. The prompt for this one was very simple: **"Hope" **[Sent by Captainfredrickwentworth]. But hey, we could all use a little hope, so here it is: **

**(Sort of Sam's perspective)**

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Hope

It is the soft hum of a river, of a mother singing her children to sleep. Not that you would know what that's like, but you have an idea of what you hope it would be. A well-placed kiss against your forehead, lips barely brushing the thick strands of your hair. Soft blankets pulled over slumped shoulders as you lose the last of your consciousness, carried off by the ebb and flow of a voice that loves your every dimple. You think she'd get the melody just right, too. You're positive she'd know every word. Never miss a beat.

It is a stitched wound with blood still seeping through the gaps in torn skin that is sure to scar. This is a feeling you know well, a hazard of your lifestyle, a choice you didn't get to make until he lay before you, bleeding out from the claws carved deep into his skin. And then you chose quickly, grabbed the needle and shoved it again and again through puckered skin until he screamed for mercy, knowing only pain and not the intent behind it. The sound still echoes in your ears sometimes. Other times it's real. Other times he's found danger again, run headlong into it without looking back to see if you're even there to pick up the pieces. For a while, you weren't. For a while, the echoing in your ears didn't have to be real if you chose not to listen. But here and now, he screams for you. So you run after him. Every single time.

It is an open mouth, breath coming slow and steady from cracked lips leaning in for one last kiss. You knew her mouth well, loved the curve of her hips against yours and the smooth, satin curl of her long blonde hair. It was over too soon, before you could blink. A single spark of flame, the lighting of one match, and she disappeared before your eyes, drowning in smoke and ash with a voice like honey, even as she screamed your name. Agony. That is pure agony, a memory never to be wiped clean. But the good memories are still there too. Her touch, her whispers in your ear, the slow rhythm of her beating heart. She was your balance and now you're thrown, kept alive only by the thing that still rests its head against your chest, though it is so much lighter than her bouncing curls. But it is the only thing that's held on after all this time. Time. There was never enough time with her.

This is you savior, the very thing that keeps your feet planted here on muddy earth, even as it slides beneath you. It is the place you will always return to when the world loses its light and the skies rumble with the promise of destruction. And this happens often, the black smoke of death flowing into the space between two beds, two loaded guns that have gone off with far too much frequency for one lifetime. A life not yet halfway over if you were counting the years on a normal scale. But you? You're lucky to still have air to breathe, lucky you weren't dragged to the depths of the deepest Hell years ago. Sometimes you think that might be a good alternative to waking up to this nightmare every day. But then you remember why you're fighting. You remember how it feels to be found after losing so much for so long. You remember your brother and that one small thing that won't let you give up yet.

This thing, clasped so tight. It is buried deep inside the seats of a car so old that the engine has no business still running. It is found in the worn smile of a bleeding brother as he insists the pain "isn't that bad." It resides in the disbelieving "thank you" of a slightly bruised stranger who could've gotten off so very, very much worse, if not for you. The darkness surrounds you, threatens to drown, but if you look closely enough, you can find it.

It is your hope. It is your last reserve, the stubborn beating of a broken heart that chooses to fix itself, to never stop pumping scarlet through your veins, no matter how heavy it gets. This is your hope, and you hold it close, cradle it gently in the palm of your hand and make sure to never squeeze too hard, lest it crumble to dust. You hold it here next to your chest because sometimes it is all you have left. Sometimes this shimmering ball of wispy white is the only reason you survive.

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**Okay see, that was maybe a little happier, right? Haha as always, thank you for reading and reviewing; you guys make my day. **


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